


The Letter

by joosetta



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-15
Updated: 2011-03-15
Packaged: 2017-10-17 00:24:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joosetta/pseuds/joosetta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam finds something he really isn't meant to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Letter

"I found your letter."

Sam was watching Dean throw the last two shotguns into his duffel, one foot out of the motel door. It was a pretty cold morning, no snow yet, but the sky had that watery, held-in look about it. Snow was coming.

"Wha-?" Dean grunted, wrestling with his stake.

"Your letter. The 'If you're reading this, I must already be dead' one."

Dean looked up, expression suddenly sharp. He tugged the duffel closed, and opened his mouth a few times before finally replying, "You were not supposed to find that, man."

"You wrote it on _my_ computer, Dean."

"I password locked it!" Dean huffed, face red. He hauled the duffel onto his shoulder and made for the door.

"Right. Because _deaniscool_ is such a secure password." Sam scrubbed at his hair, and wished he had time for a shower before they bolted. But there were three dead bodies cooling in the forest with extra teeth no coroner was going to make note of.

"Dean. Do we need to talk about this?" It was an almost plaintive appeal, but Dean simply shrugged and waved his arm, not even bothering to look back. Sam watched him for a moment, the strong arc of his arms opening the trunk of the Impala. His shoulders. His jaw.

"Fine," Sam muttered. Within a half-hour of them pulling away from that motel, those vampires, Dean was back in a good mood, Zeppelin thumping out from the speakers and snow falling behind them.

\----

"I was kind of offended," Sam began, the next time. They were taking a break somewhere just inside the Missouri state line, munching on two out of date bags of Cheetos and a flat Coke between them. They would get real food soon, but something about the strain of Dean's jaw had told Sam exactly how tired and hungry he was. All it had taken was a little bitching to get him to stop.

"Offended by what?" Dean's lips were all stained orange with cheese dust. It wasn't attractive, and neither were the dark shadows under his eyes.

"The part where you said I had to hand the Impala over to Bobby until he decided I could appreciate it."

Dean snorted at that, nodding. His eyes crinkled the way they did when he really wanted to smile.

"Dean. That's harsh! I appreciate the Impala."

"No, you don't!" Dean waved a cheesy finger at the dash. "All you do is bitch and moan about how she's not economic, and unreliable, and contributes to global warming."

Sam opened his mouth—

"No, no you don't get her until you realize how amazing she is."

"Dean. Seriously. I think we need to talk about this letter."

Dean made a face.  
"You know what else is contributing to global warming? This conversation." He rummaged in his lap for the last of his Cheetos and ate them angrily before sucking his fingers clean of all the dust. "We're going now. I wanna get there before it's dark."

Sam watched him drive for hours and hours after that, not doing much of anything but sulking. He fell asleep in the end, waking up with one of Dean's shirts balled up under his neck as a pillow.

 

\----

 

"It was a pretty long list." Sam gave it another go when they were in a bar, in between cases. Dean drank just enough to be buzzed, and he was in the best kind of mood. The kind when Sam felt like they might even be able to function as normal brothers again. Just drinking beer, talking about nothing.

"Seriously, you come out with the weirdest shit. What list?"

"The list of girls. The ones you wanted me to call up for your funeral?"

Dean raised his eyebrows and his beer, but didn't seem to be too bothered. "What can I say? I make an impression on everyone I meet. I wouldn't want them to miss out on mourning me."

Sam just sighed, staring down at his hands, away from Dean's slow smile.

"I was also thinking. Maybe some kind of musical tribute. You know, as you light me up."

"Dean. I am not going to talk to you about your funeral." Sam's fingers twitched on the tabletop.

"Hey, you're the one who keeps bringing it up!" Dean finally sounded annoyed.

Sam looked up properly and watched him glaring, the silver of his ring standing out from his folded hands. His shirt was all bunched up at one shoulder, and Sam knew there were bandages under there. Bandages and knife wounds. Sam felt his throat tighten. "That's not what I want to talk about, and you know it," he said sharply. Dean flinched, then stood, the chair grating back behind him.

"Whatever. I'm getting another one."

Dean's beer was only half drunk, but Sam knew he meant shots. He didn't wait for Dean to return with them, just headed back to the motel, his drink and the conversation still sour in his mouth.

Dean staggered in at four in the morning, smelling of whisky and sex. Sam pretended he was asleep.

\----

"How long since you—" Sam was up already, Dean still hungover and grouchy, wrapped up in cheap motel blankets. Sam had been watching him sleep for a long time, the question waiting on his lips to be asked.

Dean groaned, rolled over and covered his face with his arm.

"Dean."

The room fell so silent, Sam could almost taste it.

"Since before Stanford, all right?" Dean sounded more terrified than annoyed. Which made awful, horrible sense. He shifted until only the top of his head was visible.  
"Now can you please stop bugging me? Okay?"

Sam shut up.

\----

A _demon bear_. Ten feet tall, with claws the size of hunting knives, it wasn't the strangest thing they had ever hunted, but it was probably among the more dangerous. The thing was enormous, rearing up and lunging out with heavy paws, fast enough to run the Impala down.

Sam just wanted to put a handful of silver rounds somewhere inside its ribcage, exorcise the corpse and get the hell away.

Fallen behind, he could hear the crashing and howling of Dean cornering the bear. Then several shots, echoing through the forest.

"Dean!" Sam shouted. When only silence answered him, he scrambled towards the shots, over crumpled and clawed trees. " _Dean_! Jesus, Dean?"

The bear was down, its enormous side stained black with blood and quivering through its last breaths. Sam couldn't immediately see Dean, only his shotgun, thrown aside and also soaked in blood.

"Fuck!" Sam scrambled to it, casting around frantically for his brother, for just one fucking _hint_ of him. He found Dean tossed to the side, tangled in undergrowth. He was clawed from shoulder to belly, deep black cuts that were welling blood through his fingers. His shirt was already soaked through and Sam couldn't see a flicker of anything in his pale face.

"Dean? Dean, come on! Wake up."

Dean groaned, fingers clutching at his front. Sam ripped off his own shirt as quickly as he could and pressed it hard against the gashes. Pressure to stop the bleeding; everything that Sam ever learned about first aid, from school basketball coaches, grizzled hunters, Dad, Ellen, _Dean_ , it all became rushed and jumbled in his brain.

"I'm calling a fucking ambulance, Dean. Now."

Dean shook his head; there was an arch of splattered blood on his face, across his nose, gluing the eyelashes of one eye together.

"Not as deep as you think," he grunted, pushing Sam's shirt closer to his chest. "Half this blood belongs to that thing. Get the journal."

" _What?_ "

"Get the fucking journal, Sam. Exorcise that son of a bitch." Dean struggled to sit. His leather jacket was ripped in two places. Sam could still see the cuts bleeding sluggishly beneath the fabric of his shirt. Dean was right—they weren't that deep, and already a little color was coming back into his face.

"Do it _now_ , Sam."

Sam got the journal.

\----

Sam patched Dean up at the motel, perched feverish and pale on the edge of his sleazy mattress. The cuts were shallower than they had first seemed, sure, but it didn't stop Sam from having to sew the lower two up, lopsided stitches all the way across the blotchy red of Dean's quivering stomach.

Already they looked inflamed, infected, so Sam cleaned the cuts with everything he could find while Dean chugged whiskey, the bottle shaking in his hand.

"You need a doctor." Sam wound bandages carefully around Dean's chest; he was pretty sure there were broken ribs in there.

"Fuck off," Dean mumbled, groaning when Sam shifted to tape the gauze down. "I'm fine. Just fine. Wake up tomorrow and it'll all be gone."

Sam ignored his rambling and wiped blood away from around his glassy, feverish eyes. He could feel Dean stuttering in and out of consciousness, eyelids drooping, bottle slipping from his fingers. Sam grabbed it, and lowered Dean onto the bed, propping him up with both sets of pillows.

"You better not die," Sam blurted, as Dean gazed unfocused at the ceiling. "I do not want to have to deal with the shit in that goddamn letter, Dean."

"You'd better do it, bitch," Dean mumbled, raising one hand to sluggishly point at Sam.

"Shut up. I mean it. I am not calling all those girls up. I'm not giving Bobby the Impala."

Dean made a small discontented noise.

"I can't handle that," Sam, continued, quieter. "I don't want to read everything you want me to do when you're dead. Like you're positive you'll be gone first. I don't want to act out your final requests, or hear your final confessions."

Dean stilled, eyes closed. His lips were drawn tight, and Sam couldn't tell if it was in pain, or fear. For a long time, there was only silence.

"I thought it was just me," Sam said eventually, leaning his forehead against his hands, clenched together. For a moment, all he could hear was the roaring in his own ears, and his stomach rolled with the fear of letting out a secret so old and terrifying, he had almost succeeded in denying it to himself.

Beside him, Dean shifted and groaned. Sam waited for him to say something, but he never did. When Sam checked, Dean was fast asleep, breathing raggedly into the pillow.

\----

The next morning, Sam woke to find Dean replacing his own bandages, cursing a blue streak and leaving bloody fingerprints all over his sheets.

"Jesus Christ, Dean." Sam jerked out of his seat and scrubbed at his face. "Would you let me do that?"

He stumbled over and tugged the gauze from Dean's grip. It was pretty clear that Dean was pissed off, shoulders hunched against the pain, jaw set and eyes shuttered. Sam just let him be like that, checking and cleaning the wounds gently. When he was finished, he helped Dean clamber into the unused bed and stripped the bloody sheets, leaving them in a pile by the door.

"I'm gonna get something for the pain. Don't do anything stupid."

Dean just grunted and rolled over.

\----

When Sam returned, Dean was sleeping again, or at least pretending to. Sam put the pills on the bedside table within reach and went for a shower, lingering under the water until it ran cold. While he was towelling himself dry he heard the TV switch on in the bedroom, the abrasive laughter of a sitcom.

Sam got dressed before he went back through, finding Dean cocooned in pillows, hunched down and watching the TV. He was glowering at it as if the witty banter between the smiling characters was a personal affront to him.

"How are you feeling?" Sam took a seat beside Dean on the bed, and very deliberately ignored the way he tensed.

"Sore," Dean grunted curtly. "A bear clawed me up."

"I know, I was _there._ " Sam pinched his lips together, stopping himself from adding any more, "Will you let me check the wounds?"

Dean didn't answer, but eventually he sat further up and pulled his hands away from his chest, allowing Sam to inspect the bandages. There was much less blood, and already the gashes seemed to be less inflamed. It was just like Dean to dodge that bullet, emerge unscathed again.

Their father had been like that, too.

"Dean," Sam began, and Dean shut off the TV with a sigh.

"I don't want to talk about it, Sam. I don't want to hug. I don't want to know about that one time where you thought that maybe you—" Dean froze, lips parted under the pressure of Sam's thumb, just resting there. Sam kept his gentle grip on Dean's jaw just a little too long, and the moment grew tense, awkward. Dean said nothing, didn't even flinch as Sam stroked across his lip, once, twice before pulling his trembling hand back.

"Sam," Dean said roughly, "this is exactly why you weren't supposed to read that letter now."

"What is?" Sam whispered, leaning closer, feeling huge and clumsy with Dean curled, injured, into his pillows. He lifted his hands and wondered where to put them, what to do.

"This," Dean muttered, but his eyes had dropped to Sam's mouth, and that was it. Sam tilted forwards, and Dean's hand twitched on the covers. Outside the motel room, Sam could hear sirens, traffic, children laughing. Dean was close enough to drown it all out bit by bit, until Sam's face was hot, and he could feel his mouth quivering, opening.

For a long moment they just hung there, Sam's hands still raised, hovering over Dean's shoulders, unsure. Dean tilted his head, Sam let out a sharp exhale of breath and they were kissing, mouths opening rushed, together.

It was stilted, rough, and Sam could feel the corners of Dean's teeth, and taste blood and sour whisky from the night before. As they kissed, Sam shifted, bringing his knee up onto the bed. The moment he had, Dean grabbed it, fingers tight around the denim.

It was a signal, a warning: _don't pull away, I need this_. Sam answered with a muffled noise, and the kiss grew more urgent, Dean's tongue hot inside Sam's mouth. Sam lifted his hands again, and finally, finally moved to touch Dean, burying his fingers in cropped hair, and pushing his thumbs hard against Dean's jaw.

It was incredible, nothing like anything Sam had ever imagined. Nothing like anything ever. It was everything of Dean and nothing of him at exactly the same time. He tasted like he looked, stubble and leather and healing wounds, and he was hot and shaking under Sam's hands like a boy, not a man.

When they finally broke apart Sam could hear himself panting, and he could see something dark and burning behind Dean's startled gaze. Dean opened his mouth, red and wet, and Sam flinched, waiting for the anger to set in.

"Come here," Dean said simply, his voice low. Sam didn't need telling twice; he clambered onto the bed, careful to keep away from Dean's injured chest. He settled with a knee on either side of Dean's legs and the moment he was close enough again, Dean grabbed him, strong fingers tugging on his shirt, dragging him into another kiss, slow and burning.

"Fuck, Sam," Dean murmured wetly into the kiss. "Fuck." The words went straight to Sam's dick, he didn't think he'd ever gotten so hard so fast. He felt like he was tumbling down somewhere, falling at the increasing speed of his own heartbeat thumping in his ear. He slicked his tongue against the inside of Dean's cheek and heard him moan, hips shifting up.

"Off," Dean grunted, pulling back and tugging at Sam's shirt. It took them both far too long to open it, fingers colliding and fumbling over buttons. When it was finally gone, Sam laughed, but it stuttered and stalled in his throat as Dean ran both hands over his chest.

Dean's palms were warm and rough with calluses. He smoothed them over every inch of Sam, every ridge of muscle, making Sam moan and grind down, his cock hard and heavy in his jeans.

"Jeans too, Sammy," Dean whispered, and something about that, about that stupid nickname, once hated and now something special and secret between them, made Sam groan. He fumbled with his fly and moved back until he could kick his pants away. For a moment he was terrified, almost naked in front of his brother, hot and hard, practically burning a hole in his boxers with his cock.

Dean gestured him back, curling one hand into his hair and kissing him again, slow and strong and confident. Sam took his other wrist, circled it with his fingers and dragged it down until Dean's fingertips brushed against his belly.

"Touch me." Sam barely recognized his own voice, rough and ragged and low.

Dean swore, and palmed Sam's erection through the damp fabric of his underwear, making him shudder and curl in on himself. He was already slick, Dean sliding his hand inside Sam's boxers as easy as that, wrapping hot fingers around him.

Sam groaned and dropped his head back, tilted away from Dean's mouth as Dean stroked him, grip just right, just hard enough. The ceiling was swimming above him, and Sam closed his eyes, pumped his hips hard into Dean's fist. Dean's hand on him, and his tongue on his neck, hot and close and rough.

" _God, Dean,_ " Sam gasped, raising his hands to clutch at Dean's hair, "I need. I need to—"

There was no way to finish the sentence. Dean's grip on his cock tightened and he pulled back, breath hot against Sam's throat. "I don't know if I'm quite up to that, Sammy"

Sam shook his head, curling forwards again until his lips were by Dean's shoulder, their bodies a circuit completed by Dean's hand and Sam's mouth.

"Maybe something else," Sam breathed, and just the _thought_ of it made his voice hitch. He skated his hands down, careful on the bandages, until he could feel Dean's cock hot through his jeans. Dean was still stroking him, slow and steady, but when Sam slid two big fingers inside his waistband, Dean's rhythm faltered.

"Sammy," Dean ground out, swiping his thumb over the leaking head of Sam's cock, making him shudder.

"I've got you," Sam mumbled, forehead pressed against Dean's uninjured shoulder. He undid Dean's fly with both hands and pulled out his cock, curving hot against his palm. Dean bucked, fingers tightening almost painfully on Sam, in his hair.

Sam opened his mouth as he stroked Dean, tasting the sweat on his shoulder, on his neck. They were both moving at the same slow pace, something building up around them, a charge in the air. It felt fucking _incredible_ , and Sam couldn't really stop himself from making noises, bitten off moans and exhalations.

"Dean," he managed, finally, pulling back, stroking one hand up to Dean's face to his open mouth. "Dean, I want to suck you."

Dean made a sound like he'd been punched in the face, and hauled Sam up and into a kiss. It was rough and fast, just like Dean's hand on his dick, and the combination nearly pushed Sam over the edge.

"Let me," Sam rumbled, low in his chest. "Let me."

Dean simply let go of him, raising his fingers, wet with pre-come, and sliding them between Sam's bruised lips. Sam sucked them, slid his tongue alongside them, then pulled them free, dragging Dean's hand up and into his hair. He slid down, careful, not brushing against the healing wounds or bandages stained with spots of blood.

He breathed hot against Dean's belly and then his cock, and Dean swore, sliding back against the pillows. He looked smaller there, again, and Sam felt a sickening rush of want, swallowed up in the urgent _need_ to protect Dean.

He lowered his eyes and licked the head of Dean's cock, breathing deep and inhaling the smell of him, musky sweat and the bite of antiseptic. Dean was groaning, tossing his head on the pillow as Sam slid his lips down, sloppily, until his nose was pressed against the heaving skin between Dean's belly and hip.

He was hot, hotter than Sam had imagined, and his skin was too delicate against Sam's lips and tongue. Sam slid up again, this time taking Dean's cock right into his mouth, wrapping his lips carefully around it and swirling his tongue, savoring the taste of him. Memorizing it.

" _Fuck_. Sammy!" Dean bucked his hips desperately up, and the moment he did, Sam saw him flinch at the strain on his wounds. Something rough and hot swelled up in Sam's throat; he watched Dean, eyes bright, chest heaving, and wondered how he could keep him safe forever. It was overwhelming, and when he met Dean's eyes he wondered if Dean could see it.

He reached up and took Dean's hips, fingers dark splayed against Dean's pale skin. The next time he took Dean in his mouth he _held_ him down, tongue and throat working as Dean helplessly threw his head back. He was letting out a stream of profanities, and somewhere in the middle of it all, Sam's name.

Sam closed his eyes and ground his own erection down into the mattress. He was so close—and he could tell from the way Dean was swelling in his mouth that he was, too.

"God Sammy. Jesus, just. Go—slow." Dean's hand flexed and twisted in Sam's long hair, his hips shuddering under the pressure of Sam's grip. Sam swallowed Dean down until his mouth felt ragged, raw. Sucked, digging his thumbs in, moving up and down slowly.

He moved his own hips at the same aching pace, breathing raggedly through his nose. He could hear his heartbeat, and feel Dean's thudding through his cock, and they seemed to speed up in tandem, until Sam was fucking his mouth on Dean's cock in time with the flex of Dean's fingers in his hair, in time with the rhythm of Dean's gasping breaths.

" _Shit_! Sam—" It was enough of a warning, but Sam simply met Dean's eyes and held him down as he came, fingers twisted so hard in Sam's hair he almost ripped it out.

Sam held Dean in his mouth as he softened and just watched, thumbs stroking circles on his hips as Dean came down from wherever it was he had gone. Sam wondered whether this feeling—the need to keep Dean from harm, every part of his fragile body—whether that was how Dean felt all the time. The thought was startling.

"Sammy," Dean groaned, and he was tugging Sam up until they were nose to nose. Sam was so hard he thought he might come without Dean's help; he shook and moaned when Dean simply untangled his fingers and stroked back his hair.

They kissed, slow, so slow, and Dean stroked Sam at the same rate. It only took a moment longer before Sam came, whatever it was swollen inside him bursting red-burning behind his eyelids. Dean kissed him through his gasps and groans, held him up with one steady arm.

When Sam was finished, he pressed his face against Dean's neck again, kissing him there. He rolled carefully to the side and dropped his head onto the pillow next to Dean. Sam felt boneless, languid, and stared at his own legs stretched next to Dean's as if they weren't quite connected to his body.

"It was a pretty long time," he murmured eventually, "to wait."

"Mm," Dean said, and raised a hand to settle in Sam's hair. For a moment he just looked at Sam, expression unreadable, and then he shifted over until they were shoulder to shoulder. Just close enough to kiss.

"Shoulda used a better password," Dean murmured into the kiss. Sam smiled, feeling Dean's eyelids flutter against his cheekbone.

"Shut up," he mumbled. He listened as Dean's breathing evened out into the steady pattern of sleep, and then, with the sun still high outside and come still sticky on his stomach, Sam joined him.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 22/02/2007- beta: Balefully. To see the letter in question visit: http://i69.photobucket.com/albums/i79/joosetta2/Picture8.png


End file.
